The City That Forgets

Every morning in the village of Nareth, people awoke to the same terrifying truth: they remembered nothing of the day before. Names were forgotten. Faces unfamiliar. Even their own reflections sparked confusion. The entire town was caught in a relentless cycle of amnesia, cursed to forget each sunset’s story by the time dawn arrived.

But not Liam.

Liam, a 17-year-old boy with curious eyes and a restless mind, remembered everything.

He knew the baker’s name was Elda, though she would always greet him with “Hello, stranger.”

He knew the children who played by the river had once been his friends, though now they screamed when he called them by name.

And he remembered his parents… or rather, the people who had once claimed to be.

Liam kept a journal—hundreds of pages filled with sketches, notes, and maps of a world that refused to remember itself. He wore it like armor, slinging the leather-bound book across his chest each day as he wandered the foggy cobblestone streets of Nareth.

The townsfolk feared him, though they didn’t know why. He was too confident, too sure of things they couldn’t explain. Some whispered he was cursed. Others avoided him altogether.

But Liam didn’t care.

He had a mission.

He believed the forgetting was not natural—no sickness of the mind nor punishment from the gods. He believed it was magic. Old, dark magic. The kind that buried itself deep in soil and blood.

And tonight, on the eve of the Red Moon, he planned to uncover the truth.

In the heart of the town stood an ancient well, long sealed with rusted iron. No one remembered why. But Liam did. He’d written about it months ago after overhearing a man speak in his sleep about “the eyes in the water.” That man was gone now. Disappeared, like many others who grew too curious.

Liam stood before the well just before dusk, his journal trembling in his hands. The sky above blushed crimson—a warning, or maybe an invitation. He took a deep breath and unhooked the chains that barred the old stones. With a creak like the groan of bones, the lid came loose.

He peered down.

Nothing.

Only blackness.

And then—movement. A shimmer. A ripple of color like a memory trying to take form.

Suddenly, a voice, faint and familiar, echoed from the depths:

“Liam…”

He staggered back, nearly dropping the journal.

No one ever remembered his name.

No one.

But something beneath the earth did.

The Red Moon rose, casting blood-light across the rooftops of Nareth. Around him, lanterns flickered, and behind closed windows, people were beginning to forget once more.

Liam tightened his grip on the journal.

Tomorrow, they would wake up new. Blank.

But not him.

He had heard his name in the dark.

And now, he knew he was not alone.

As he backed away from the well, his heart pounding, he turned sharply—expecting shadows, threats, watchers. But the street was still. Silent. He held his breath. For a moment, the world seemed to pause with him.

Then something caught his eye: a single red thread, fluttering gently from a lamppost nearby. It wasn’t there earlier. He was sure of it. Liam stepped closer and found a slip of paper tied to the thread.

It read:

“Find the girl who dreams.”

He looked around again—still nothing. No footsteps. No whispers. Just the quiet hum of a cursed city going to sleep.

Liam tucked the note into his journal.

Whatever this was, it was only the beginning.